


Insomniac

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Comedy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhaustion, Fluff, Hell, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Sleep Deprivation, author was sleep deprived as balls, hell & heaven, they're akward and it's one of my lighter fics :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 05:08:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20886617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A tribute to my fellow insomniacs.They survived the Apocalypse. They survived Heaven and Hell. But now, left on Earth to their own devices, new troubles are bound to arise.(PS wrote this while super out of it at like 1 am so it might not make much sense)





	Insomniac

He was tired. 

It made sense that Crowley was so fatigued, struggling to keep his silted eyes open most days. He hadn’t had a wink of good sleep for what felt like months, but was probably only a few weeks. 

What didn’t make was why he’d had no rest. It wasn’t like he was waking up in a cold sweat every night, heart racing and screams torn from his throat agonizingly. Sometimes he just…kinda…stared up at the ceiling. Not sleeping. Even in his comfortable bed with no disruptions of any kind. 

Sometimes his thoughts would race, and he’d spend the entire night thinking…plotting…worrying…mostly about Aziraphale. 

Sometimes his nights were silent, filled with the deafening white noise of silence. It was as if he’d run out of thoughts. Like there was a plumbing system for his thoughts, constructed by an extremely incompetent group of construction workers. The pumps either worked overtime, spewing out thoughts in a cascading waterfall of emotions and ideas and fears and things that haunted him to this day. Or the pump was bone dry, only occasionally sputtering and coughing up a muddy, chunky bit of thought that wasn’t helpful in any way. 

Think about like this. Imagine you spent your whole life wearing a grey sweater. You’ve had it on your back since you first found out about the concept of sweaters, and found it extremely comforting, giving you a sort of, contentedness you barely ever get these days of your stressful life, running errands and completing missions for your bosses. You start wearing this sweater often, as a creature comfort. You feel as if this sweater is a part of your personality, the ritual of putting on this sweater at least every now and then keeping you sane as your pine over a kind, angelic soul who could probably never love you back. Putting on the sweater is the only familiar task of the day sometimes, what with all the assignments you’ve been receiving. Once, you even wrap yourself up in this sweater for a whole century, stress hitting a breaking point on your body and mental state, taking it’s toll. 

And sometimes the sweater is lost or broken or stained, and you have to buy another sweater or miracle yourself another sweater, but the act of wrapping yourself in it’s baggy form is always familiar and relaxing, no matter if it was the same sweater or not (and plus, they made nicer and comfier sweaters as the years went by so, why not get a better one?) . And sure, some think you’re weird because where you work from no one even wears clothing since they’re absolute barbarians. They think you’re going soft, taunt you about it. What? A hoodie? Next you’ll be wearing bows and shirts and pants and dresses (little do they know, you’ve worn all of the things they tease about). 

The sweater changes sometimes, but the act of putting it on is always that same, incredibly soothing ritual. Sweaters have been with you through thick and thin. At some of your best and worst (mostly worst) moments. This is an essential part of your soul, you as a person. 

And then you wake up one day to find that you can’t put on a sweater anymore. No matter how hard you try, whatever methods (healthy or not) you attempt, nothing works. 

At first you think it’s because you nearly got executed by your former employers, but that’s only part of the problem. Sometimes, it’s not even nightmares of loss and burning books, you just can’t put on that damned sweater. There’s nothing even stopping you from doing it, you just can’t slide in anymore for some unknown reason and it pisses you off. 

And now you’re stressed and tired and snappy and you lash out at the ones close to you. You become moody without your comforts, angry and easily irritated by the slightest inconvenience. Your loved ones are worried but you’re not going to tell them because it’s just a silly sweater. You’ve survived without them before, you’re fine. You don’t need help with something so small and insignificant. 

And you tell them so. I’m fine, and I’m alright, just had a bit of a bad day today and- 

“Quit worrying `bout me, Angel, I’m fffine. Now keep feedin the duckssssss.” 

“So you’ve told me,” Aziraphale pouted, staring at Crowley disbelievingly after having asked several times that day if Crowley was doing alright, because You seem a bit pale, my dear and Are you sure you’re quite alright? You barely even noticed the food in front of you, and- 

“But I just can’t help but worry,” he folded up the paper bag, still half full with breadcrumbs for the ducks. Said ducks were squawking in indignation about getting less bread than normal as Aziraphale turned and gazed at Crowley, taking him in as he tried in vain to register Aziraphale’s question. He had a blank expression on his face that reminded Aziraphale of a computer after Newt grazed his hand across the keyboard, making the screen to buffer and try to load and reload before filling with as many error signs as could possibly fit in one screen. 

“I’m…I’m fine angel,” he finally spat out, leaning on the pond railing, sunglasses sliding down enough to show off his weary eyes, lids at half mast, “Probly overdid it with the drinkssss yesssterday,” 

Aziraphale frowned, brow furrowing as he frowned (disappointed. Disappointed, you made him disappointed. Stupid serpent…) “Crowley, we didn’t drink that night,” he said softly, hands splayed on top of each other “remember?” 

Crowley hesitated for a minute, jaw hanging open, slack before it finally moved itself to clumsily form syllables and string them together in a nice, tidy sentence. Although, in this case, it was more of a slanted, hastily formed, damaged, and dented sentence. Like a Christmas present that you got last minute, wrapping it at 4 am in the morning, rushing to finish it in your sleep deprived state before you gifted it to a loved one. The present ends up looking all shoddy and the wrapping is ripped in a few places, in others it doesn’t even try to cover any of the present at all, tape just barely holding the monstrosity of paper and lack of paper together. You put a shiny ribbon on the general vicinity of where you think the top of it is, hoping that it somehow takes attention away from the absolutely massacred offering that makes you start to question who authorized your hands to create such a horrible representation of Christmas cheer in the first place? 

“Ahh…ah, um yeahhhhh…..” sweat beaded at his temple as he presented the poorly constructed, gift wrapped sentence to Aziraphale, “Whoopssssiessss..” 

Aziraphale wasn’t impressed. He was very aware that Crowley had been acting off for the past few days, what with him hissing and whatnot. This was the first chance he’d been given to confront the issue; he wasn’t letting him off the hook this time. 

He set his hand gently on Crowley’s shoulder, “How about we go back to the bookshop, my dear?” he suggested, steering Crowley gently towards the general direction of the bookshop, as if trying to convince him to cooperate. 

Crowley, of course, complied. Mainly because he had a flimsy, greasy, rapidly deteriorating grip on reality, and was going to along with whatever that lovely Angel of his came up with, just so he could get through this seemingly endless day. Seriously, he’d been through entire eras that were nothing compared to this. 

His eyes less scanned, more bounced around, pulling his vision to different sized and shapes of green that he was pretty sure were trees or shrubs or something or other…maybe they were back in Eden…Why were they back in Eden again?...Maybe Aziraphale had business there…hmmm…he liked Aziraphale…Aziraph…faallle…was nice……yessss…………ssss...... 

Meanwhile, ‘Aziraph…faalle’ was currently dragging Crowley over to the bookshelf while the serpent’s last remaining brain cells trudged to a stop, too tired to do anything more than follow Aziraphale’s lead. He was fueled purely on the dregs of the dregs of an already exhausted energy source; animal instinct had taken over; He was just a snake in a human skin at this point. 

“Come, dear,” Aziraphale grunted, trying to walk with companion’s weight and arms, which were currently trying to sneak their way around Aziraphale, like heat seeking missiles, emphasis on the heat part, “we’re almost at the bookshop,” 

“It’ssssssssss warummm,” Crowley slurred, not even making an effort to stand as Aziraphale fumbled with the bookshop keys, eventually just miracling the door open. The two stepped through the doorway, the bookshop owner just full-on carrying Crowley at this point. 

Aziraphale gestured with his fingers, making the door shut behind them. He then gave another good look over Crowley, whose glasses had fallen off at some point, highlighting the dark shading under his eye lids even more than before. “Oh, Crowley…” 

He made his way through the maze of bookshelves to the back, setting the serpent down on the couch. Crowley curled in on himself as soon as Aziraphale left, shivering and shaking, like an autumn leaf. It was July. 

Aziraphale strode back into the room, laying a blanket on Crowley, trying to adjust his body so he’d be more comfortable, until Crowley felt the flutter of warm hands on his face and absolutely melted into the soft touch, canceling out any plans of escape Aziraphale could form. 

“waarrrrm,” Crowley muttered softly, grasping at Aziraphale (who was already sporting a hot pink hue on his neck and the tips of his ears) and weakly pulling at him. 

“Ah-er, a-am I a pillow now?” Aziraphale found himself asking, flushing a deep red when Crowley nodded. So Aziraphale, in what he considered a Frighteningly Embarrassing Act of Intimacy and Insanity, sat down and guided Crowley’s head to lay on his lap, his hand daring to dart out and brush Crowley’s long hair back from his face. 

Crowley’s eyes could just barely be seen in the shady lighting of the backroom, they blinked dazedly as dust rolled around the air, creating a calm, welcoming atmosphere. 

Quiet, Crowley thought sluggishly, very.…..different from…from ‘silent’. 

“Coudn’t sssssssleep…” explained a croaky, cracked voice from Aziraphale’s lap, erasing the initial embarrassment, “`t’ssssss sssssstupid, don’ need it” 

“It is very much not ‘stupid’, I assure you,” Aziraphale scoffed, his hand having found it’s way back into Crowley’s hair without his aproval, petting through the auburn locks, “especially if it does this to you, Crowley.” His tone became soft, expression solemn as he gazed down at Crowley, “Please…I know you don’t need it, but it’s important to you, just as my books are, and I would be positively devastated if I couldn’t read them anymore.” He joked, trying to lighten and distill the heavy, molasses-thick weight that had fallen upon the two of them, “So please,” Aziraphale adjusted the blanket to go around his shoulders, “please, tell me next time, dear,” 

Crowley shifted his body a little, taking in a sharp breath at the painful sincerity in Aziraphale’s voice. He had felt the lull of sleep pulling at him for the first time in weeks while Aziraphale had been talking, “Cou…could you, ummm…pet…?” 

“Of course,” Aziraphale answered earnestly, resuming his hand’s soft caress. 

The day dragged on. 

And finally, finally, Crowley closed his eyes. 


End file.
